Yellow
by Horribibble
Summary: There, above him, was the most obnoxiously yellow umbrella he had ever seen. And it was shaped like a rubber duck. -Gaara x Naruto- AU. Slash. Yaoi. Title may be subject to change.
1. Rubber Ducky

**A/N:** This idea popped up around one in the morning and was finished at 2:10. I am now bone-tired and starving. This is unedited, but I will probably add more at my leisure. To those of you awaiting updates, they're presently being raped in the backseat by _Northanger Abbey_ and a five-page English paper. Please have patience with me. And for those in it for Paper, Rock, Scissors: It's not dead. Please don't cry.

**Disclaimer: **Naruto isn't mine. Have you ever seen anything _remotely_ like this in Naruto? Didn't think so.

**Y**ellow

_I: Rubber Ducky, You're the One_

_

* * *

  
_

The day that Gaara Sabakuno met Naruto Uzumaki for the first time, it was pouring down rain. He remembered: that morning, the weather woman—a large-breasted woman with bottle-fresh strawberry blonde hair—had mentioned heavy rain, holding one of those stupid little Barbie umbrellas over her head and doing her best to boost up her cleavage at the same time.

He looked up at the sky from his position under the awning, nearly hissing at the prospect of more frigid water soaking through his thin shirt. Admittedly, after suffering through that ridiculous weather report with his siblings—family bonding, they'd said—he could have made a few better wardrobe decisions.

Perhaps the thin, grungy maroon Henley could have been topped with one of his brother's army surplus jackets, but he didn't want to ask to borrow one.

Perhaps the old, ratty hand-me-down jeans could have been replaced with a thicker pair, but he didn't want to ask for the money to buy them.

Perhaps his old boots could have been replaced with something that didn't cause little tidal waves in each and every puddle, but they made his feet feel safe.

…Come to think of it, the steel toes were probably turning his feet into small lightning rods.

…Oh, well.

Perhaps he should have just brought an umbrella.

He sighed, a short, irritated noise, looking down at his lightning-rod shoes before looking back up—and nearly crying out.

There, above him, was the most obnoxiously yellow umbrella he had ever seen.

And it was shaped like a rubber duck.

He turned sharply, prepared to attack the intruder with a swift kick to the shin, but stopped short when he noticed an even _bigger _yellow monstrosity.

There, in front of him, stood a blonde boy, about his age, in bright yellow parachute pants, a stomach-baring t-shirt with a massive smiley on it, and a pair of rainbow-striped rain boots.

The man was like the _poster child_ for 'Gay'.

And people called _him _queer.

"What do you want?" Gaara asked suspiciously, sweeping rain-swept bangs from his eyes to get a better look at what rather reminded him of a raving Big Bird.

"You're, uh, kind of _wet_."

"Oh, _my_," Gaara drawled in monotone, "I had not noticed. Thank you ever so much for letting me know."

The blonde snorted, blue eyes fixing on him without fear, as if he were used to this treatment.

He thumbed at the crystal pendant around his neck before shaking the umbrella slightly, drawing attention to it, "Would you like to share?"

"Sorry. I've been told not to talk to strange people."

"Strange?" The blonde grinned with wicked cheer, "I'm not strange. I'm _eccentric._"

"Did your mother teach you that word?"

"My mother's dead," The blonde seemed to deflate for a moment, but perked back up as he brushed his hair away from one ear, pointing to a rather pretty earring, "These were hers. My dad gave 'em to her, in high school. Pretty neat, huh?" He smiled.

_What the…?!_

_Does this kid have ADHD, or what?_

"Anyway, that topic kind of sucks. I'm not a stranger if you know my name, right? It's Naruto. I'm Naruto Uzumaki. I just moved here to stay with my grandparents again."

"Again?"

"Yeah. I was kind of living on my own for a while; even though they said it was a bad idea. It kinda was, too. I mean, living alone _sucks._ It was pretty hard to make friends and stuff."

"I can't imagine why."

_The boy's a freak, that's why. Should I mention it, or would he just twitter on about _that_, too?_

"Oh. That's easy. It's pretty hard to get back and forth from school and a night shift at a gay bar."

_--Ngrk?!_

Naruto smiled as if nothing were out of the ordinary, "Surprised?"

Gaara glared at him, "I don't see why you feel the need to share this with me."

"You looked like you were scared of me, before. Just a little. But I'm not a stranger now, see?"

"All right, fine. Since you're so talkative…what's with the clothes?"

"I didn't want to be sad today."

Gaara arched a brow.

Naruto winked.

"Come on, Sabakuno. I'll walk you home. You don't even have to smile for it."

And there it was—as the boy stepped off the curb, still facing him, he saw it—a real, honest smile where there'd only been cheesy grins before.

"All right. …Fine. But if you touch me…"

"You can scream rape."

"I was going to say 'I'll kick your asshole into your lungs'."

Naruto laughed, and Gaara joined him under the umbrella, careful to stay on his side of the ducky.

"Okay."

* * *

**A/N: **Thanks for reading, and please review, if you can. Root for me, people! Updates come when I'm _not _having nervous breakdowns.


	2. Golden Glow

**A/N:** I thought I owed all of you lovelies a bit more of this story, as it expanded a bit in my head. I'm finishing this at 4 AM, so it's probably subject to some major revision. Nonetheless, I hope you enjoy it.

**Disclaimer: **Naruto isn't mine. Have you ever seen anything _remotely_ like this in Naruto? Didn't think so.

**Y**ellow

_II: The Golden Glow_

* * *

The day that Naruto Uzumaki first followed Gaara Sabakuno home, the rain flooded the streets. It was impossible to take a step without feeling the water flood your shoes like a reverse airlock in some SciFi film.

And it was cold.

Gaara growled at the feeling of cold, sopping denim sticking to his calves as another little wave rippled away from Naruto's obnoxious rainbow boots.

"You always walk home from school?"

"Yes."

"That must be why you're so fit."

Gaara turned his head, gazing pointedly at the chiseled abs apparent below that stupid yellow smiley shirt.

"Not from walking." Naruto grinned, and Gaara's head snapped away.

"Keep that to yourself."

"Hey. You're blushing."

"Shut up."

"But it's _cute!_"

"If you have to keep running your mouth, talk about something _else_!"

"Let me think about it."

Thinking, apparently, took a great deal more concentration on Naruto's part than speaking did. He was, for the most part, silent for the next few blocks.

Gaara could almost be thankful, were it not for the constant waves of rainwater still soaking in through his clothes. He slid his gaze to the side, intent on glaring daggers at the other male, but paused.

The umbrella cast them both in a soft yellow glow. Like this, the obnoxious boy almost looked..._soft_, somehow. Like he was made of something _good_ inside.

Naruto shook his head, offering up another little smile, "Something wrong?"

Gaara frowned, any good will dragged out by the speech of his nemesis, "You're getting me _soaked_."

"Oh." Naruto paused in motion, "Why didn't you say so?"

_Because that means I'd have to _talk _to you!_

"Hmph."

"Well, it's easy enough to fix. It's exercise, anyway."

He shoved the umbrella at Gaara, offering no explanation. The redhead eyed the handle of the yellow monstrosity as if he could _see _the microscopic germs writhing on the plastic.

Then, suddenly, he was flying...or something like it.

He could not, for the life of him, remember the last time he had been held aloft in any way.

Yet that was exactly what happened.

The day that Naruto Uzumaki first met Gaara Sabakuno, he carried him home.

* * *

Gaara had struggled, of course, but the blonde was strong, and each time he squirmed, the umbrella would sway, and the rain would come flooding down on their unprotected heads.

In the end, as Naruto set him down gently on his front porch, there was really no point for the damn ducky at all.

Both of them resembled rather colorful drowned rats, dripping and shivering on the old wooden boards.

Gaara opened his mouth to ream the older boy, but stopped at the light in the blonde's eyes.

"Thanks for walking with me, Gaara."

"...You're welcome. Now go home." He grumbled, pushing the heinous umbrella back into the blonde's grip, lest he attempt to carry him across the threshold.

"Yeesh. Okay, okay, not even gonna give me a towel. I get it." Naruto joked, turning and walking back out from the relative safety of the covered porch.

Gaara watched him as he headed back down the walkway to the sidewalk, determined to see him _leave_.

With good reason. The neon wonder turned back mere inches from the sidewalk.

"Hey, Gaa-"

"_What?_"

A sudden, bubbling laugh that he could barely make out through the rain, then, "You're prettier than Deidara said! Just wanted you to know that!"

Naruto ran off before Gaara could find anything to throw, so he missed the little twitch at the corner of his lips.

But only a very little one.

And it disappeared by the time he locked the door behind him.

He whispered, "I'm home."

But in terms of emotional conviction, he probably didn't mean it.

* * *

**A/N: **Again, thanks for reading. Feedback is more than welcome, but I'm not going to ransom anything.

If anyone would be willing to throw together some art for any of my stories, it would be very much appreciated. owo


	3. Jealousick 1

**A/N:** Time for an update. :)

**Disclaimer: **Naruto isn't mine. Have you ever seen anything _remotely_ like this in Naruto? Didn't think so.

**Y**ellow

_III: Jealousick .1_

* * *

When Gaara Sabakuno announced, 'I'm home.', he never really expected a promising answer. Then again, there was very little that he considered 'promising'. His siblings may well have been home, but he spent a great deal of time and effort avoiding them like the plague.

He supposed that he 'loved' them, in some sense...if 'love' counted as being tremendously inconvenienced and greatly irritated by a sudden maiming and/or death. He had never really taken the opportunity to bond with his siblings in the past. It had never been an option.

He could recall sitting by himself, playing with some junky old toy or another while his siblings watched him with something like morbid curiosity. He remembered an older woman—a babysitter, she had to be, as Gaara was fairly certain that family members were legally incapable of quitting—chatting them up quite amicably until she realized that the red-haired, eyebrowless sociopath dismembering a G.I. Joe while his stuffed bear looked on in curious glee was _also _her responsibility.

He remembered Kankuro saying 'Way to go, Gaara' before the younger boy popped him in the nose.

He hadn't liked them at all, around that time.

They were the good ones.

They were the ones that didn't hurt mommy.

That G.I. Joe was probably just practice.

Fortunately, their relationship had improved with age. Gaara felt that he could stomach an hour or two of contact with his siblings without feeling the gnawing urge to disembowel something.

On good days, he might even let them touch his hair.

* * *

In this case, his siblings weren't home after all. Gaara couldn't bring himself to care. He wanted to think, and his siblings—specifically Kankuro—were detrimental to quiet contemplation.

At least this way he had free reign over the couch and all that fell within her domain: the television, the ever-coveted remote, and the decorative bowl full of colorful sea glass.

That was the part Gaara liked best—the cool, sleek surfaces of sea-smoothed glass. Their mother had collected them, Temari said, and there was even one that matched Gaara's eyes dead on.

That was the one he picked up, pressing it gently into his palm before spreading himself on the couch, staring up at the ceiling, face blank and open.

_It's Naruto. I'm Naruto Uzumaki. _

He was bizarre. There was nothing to be done for it. He was a gigantic, yellow monstrosity, and now he knew where Gaara lived.

He knew where...

Gaara's eyes widened with sudden realization.

_**Wait!**_

_Come on, I'll walk you home._

_walk you home—you— _

_You don't even have to smile for it._

_You—I'll walk you home._

_Come on, Sabakuno._

_Sabakuno._

"That son of a bitch knows my name. _How _does that son of a bitch—..._Deidara._"

* * *

You've reached Sasori Akasuna. I don't like to wait or keep others waiting, so leave a short message and I'll get back to you.

* * *

"I'm going to kill your fucking boyfriend."

* * *

By the time Naruto got back home, the rain was finally starting to let up. He stamped his feet on the welcome mat a few times in hopes of shaking off excess water, but it didn't help much at all.

He stood there for a moment, considering the doorbell quietly before raising his knuckles to rap at the door instead. It opened almost instantly, his grandmother taking in an eyeful before arching a brow, "Holy shit, Naruto. What did you even take that damn umbrella for?"

"Shits and giggles?" He offered, sweetly as you please, and Tsunade swatted him.

"Brat, if you get sick it'll be Jiraiya taking care of you this time. The old bastard could use a slave laborer."

The younger blonde ran his fingers through sopping wet strands, "About that..."

The older woman rolled her eyes, moving aside to usher him inside, "Move it, Tweety. I'll get you some warm towels."

* * *

**A/N: **Next update should be fairly soon, classes allowing. I'm also gaining courage with the tablet, so I might try to hang myself over illustrations, soon. Anyone want to draw/recommend a good artist for commissions?


	4. Mat and Tile

**A/N:** Time for an update. :)

**Disclaimer: **I don't own the series, and writing this nets me no capitol. Don't mock my pain.

**Y**ellow

_IV: Mat and Tile_

* * *

On the day that Gaara Sabakuno met Naruto Uzumaki, he had what he was fairly certain was a migraine.

Was that the word?

He'd heard it before, certainly. He'd heard it often.

Naruto had given him a migraine, just as he gave his father migraines. This point considered, he realized he should probably feel quite a bit more animosity toward the blonde, but he couldn't bring himself to perform.

He was cold, and wet, and the longer he stayed stretched out on the couch like this, the more uncomfortable he would become. He looked down at himself, then, taking stock of the soaked clothing, clinging tightly to his skin, and the precious lifelines clutched in either hand.

In one hand, hanging over the void just beyond the edge of the couch, he held that piece of sea glass—the one that matched his eyes. His mother had collected it, that was right, so she must have liked the color. The color of the sea glass, the color of his eyes.

Some part of him was good, at least. Some aspect of himself had been wanted by _someone _at _some _point.

His eyes itched, and he had to stop looking at it.

He chose instead to tighten his grip until the glass nearly ripped into his soft palm and his long fingers as he turned his attention to the other hand-

The hand holding his cell phone to his bared stomach, warm and—if you listened closely enough—thrumming faintly.

Everything thrummed if you listened closely enough.

Everything thrummed and buzzed and lived, no matter how much you wanted it to stop.

Everything around you crescendoed and crashed below in a constant spin, broken only by the occasional moment of half-hearted human speech. It wouldn't stop, because it couldn't. It was incapable of doing much of anything but carrying on and inducing nausea.

Nausea.

There was a sharp, twisting pain in his brain, and Gaara expelled a breath, failing to dispel the rain-stuck bangs from his forehead.

This was pointless.

Sad

pathetic

and pointless.

So he reached out that soft-palmed, long-fingered hand, and released the sea glass back into the bowl, listening with his eyes half-glazed for the delicate 'plink' before moving an inch.

He lifted a leg from the cushions, not even bothering to wince at the sticky-sick feeling of his wet clothing unsticking itself from the furnished fabric, and swung it over the edge of the couch.

The other followed as Gaara rose, the hand with his remaining lifeline falling to the side as he sat up, gazing blankly into space for a moment before looking back down.

Small.

Black.

Modern.

Reasonably priced.

It could only text because Temari had insisted that he be able to send messages, should the need arise. An emergency, maybe.

If a dog mauled him. Tore out his vocal chords. Did what he never could.

End it.

Dramatic music.

Final curtain.

* * *

Some switch in his brain went off, for a moment, and his Imagination told him,

* * *

"You're pathetic, you know that, right?"

In his phone's voice.

His free hand dug long-fingered claws into his seat before he rose, his nose wrinkling just a touch at the burning, wrinkly sensation inside of his boots.

"You and me both."

He answered, eying the black plastic.

Pathetic or not, he expected a phone call from Sasori. He did so hate to keep people waiting. The threat was just a Fast Pass, really.

"I'm taking a bath."

Alone.

The phone wasn't waterproof.

* * *

So he sat it on the ugly yellow-beige tile beside the tub.

It was on Ring and Vibrate, just in case the tiles and the mats and the cabinets didn't know he was there.

* * *

He let himself sink under the water, into the lukewarm and hollow fizzing.

When he shifted, the water reported noises bigger than the motions that produced them.

It was funny.

He wondered, absently, that if this was how sound worked underwater, how were dolphins not deaf?

Stupid.

He blew out a stream of bubbles—tiny little bubbles—and thought about screaming.

No one would hear him, no one was home.

The water would catch it, anyway, and rush it back into his mouth.

And he would be quiet, because that was the only way to apologize for shouting underwater.

Wasn't that all that drowning was?

A reverse airlock?

Like the water in his boots, rushing away from the rainbow slickers and into his old black shit-kickers.

Smiling at him, and being entirely too friendly.

Or just friendly enough, for a stalker.

* * *

He decided that he wouldn't drown himself today.

It'd just make his headache worse.

And that was the last thing he needed, because he was expecting a phone call.

* * *

Naruto didn't have an _actual _rubber ducky.

Just an umbrella shaped like one.

He wasn't five, after all, he just liked to _act _like he was now and then. Just to see.

If he _did _have a rubber ducky, he'd feel _really _guilty for what he was doing right about now.

But right now, he felt good.

He felt great.

He felt like running his fingers through soft, red hair.

But he couldn't, so he contented himself with tightening his tunnel-grip, just beneath the surface, and leaning back against the wall, resting his head against cool tiles and letting his imagination play havoc with the soft blonde strands slicked to his skin.

He felt like making someone scream.

He felt like screaming, himself.

But he couldn't, so he bit his lip until he tasted iron and let his moans echo in his skull, rolling and washing over what may well have been the hottest fantasy he'd ever had—about a kid that probably hated him, probably wanted to beat him dumb with ducky. He let them float there, in his mind, with all of his most creative imaginings of a much more accommodating redhead, bare of everything except his jacked-up boots.

He felt like coming.

So he did.

* * *

In his head, someone smiled.

* * *

Gaara wasn't smiling.

He wasn't displaying _any _particular emotion, really.

He wasn't very good at 'emoting'.

So he rested his chin, however uncomfortably, on the edge of the tub, framed by his dangling arms, fingertips nearly touching the floor.

Water dripped down the lengths of those arms, past his fingers, gathering at the tips before free-falling to the bathroom floor, just at the edge of the water-mottled floor mat.

One hand reached out to tangle and toy with the fibers, but the movement cut short. There was no real interest, and he fell limp again.

Sea green glass stared at cheap black plastic.

* * *

Waiting, waiting, waiting.

* * *

In someone else's head, just moments ago, he had been having the best sex of his young life.

The _only _sex of his young life.

But here, dangling like Hangman from the edge of the tub,

Gaara was waiting for a phonecall.

And Gaara wasn't smiling.

* * *

_**A/N**_: Yes, I know, why so srs? It says Romance/Humor. There will be. For some strange reason, I can't _escape _writing some sick humor into my stories. But the story was originally a oneshot idea, and as it develops, well... it's all Yellow. Stick with it. There's a pot of yellow coin at the end of the rainbow. ;) Also, since it was a oneshot, it's hard to _aim _at where I want this to go.

I'm sorry if it takes a while.

I appreciate your support.

Also—Merry Christmas, folks.


	5. Eyes and Overheads

**A/N:**Here it is—the long overdue update. I have a definite direction for my story, now. I was just trying to draft and redraft this chapter in the appropriate direction. I hope you all enjoy it.

**Warnings: **There is a more descriptive 'solo' scene in this chapter. I'm still getting used to writing this sort of material, so I hope it's well-received. If that offends you, I suggest you leave after the boots hit the bottom. The last section is safe.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own the series, and writing this nets me no capitol. Don't mock my pain.

* * *

**Y**ellow

_V: Eyes and Overheads_

* * *

Did you ever taste a headache?

Gaara did. He tasted the throbbing in his head and throat, sitting unpleasant and heavy.

He could smell the _weeeen-_ing thrum of the dull yellow light bulbs, laughing at him over the mirror.

He gave up, sinking back into the tub, keeping one hand on the rim—a place holder. The other he lifted, spreading his fingers to better present the appendage for inspection.

_ Just you and me, now, Watson_.

Wrinkled, deep and sore and funny numb.

Such was the state of his waterlogged fingers, running down and interconnected by delicate, fleshy webs.

Paper thin, they ached and protested when his digits stretched too far apart.

And then it rang.

The phone, not the hand.

He needed something to pick it up with.

* * *

Gaara was not the sort of person to spend his free time dicking around, downloading ringtones.

Temari had done that for him.

So when Sasori finally called him back, pulling Gaara's vision to tunnel in on the cheap contraption, the entire sad moment was accented by a crappy midi version of "Pocket Full of Sunshine".

Sometimes he was amazed he'd never poisoned her Apple Jacks.

* * *

He didn't bother drying his hands before picking up the phone.

There was really no point.

There was another human being interrupting his hard-earned suicidal teenage drivel time, and—oh. Yes. He'd been expecting the call.

He should be nice.

Instead, Gaara pushed the 'Talk' button and pressed the phone to his ear over sopping wet red strands. There was an unpleasant, scratchy metal noise, but otherwise—silence.

He waited.

A sigh breezed through from the other end of the tunnel, "_Gaara_." It said, "_You're an asshole._"

"I would be doing you a favor."

_"You? A favor?_"

"Your boyfriend is a spy."

"_Maybe that's why he's so good in bed._"

"He's going to get me raped."

"_I think they call it 'matchmaking' these days_."

"You, too, can find you ideal mate. Whether they want you to or not. This weekend only—"

"_So you've met Naruto._"

"If by 'met' you mean 'were accosted by', then yes, Naruto and I had a lovely first escalation."

"_He's not a stalker, Gaara. He's Deidara's cousin._"

"Is that supposed to be reassuring? Your boyfriend considers the Unabomber a personal role model."

"_He was joking._"

"In court?"

"_He hasn't been called for jury duty since._"

"They usually don't call people on the federal watch list, no."

"_Deidara wasn't the one who told him, anyway. It was me._"

"Why?"

_"Because he's the same as you. Without the glaring martyr complex._"

Gaara chose to ignore that last part, confessing inwardly that _at least it killed time_. "He works at a gay bar, and he carries a ducky umbrella."

"_So he tries too hard. You don't try hard enough. There has to be a happy medium somewhere, Gaara._"

He wasn't about to whine about his problems, or beg for attention. He may have been a martyr, but at least he had his own dignity, soaked through and threadbare as it may have been. He didn't particularly enjoy the insinuation that he was some kind of self-perpetuating wreck.

You couldn't be a martyr without _some _form of outside help. For every effect, there was a cause.

"Fuck off."

An outburst was still an outburst, even in monotone. Sasori sounded vaguely pleased, as if he'd finally found the right sequence of buttons to push. "_You can be angry with me if you like, but you know I have a point._ _Before you hang up, I want you to listen to me. And I know that you will, because I matter to you. Naruto is a good person, _most days_. I'm confident that he'll be of use to you._"

The verbal disclaimer put the blonde closer to Gaara, somehow. Sasori rarely said anything without good reason. It was a waste of time.

"And how should I 'use' him, Sasori?"

"_Think of him as a vacuum cleaner—" _Gaara could hear the faint traces of a smirk playing at the edges of his cousin's voice, but he was too stuck on the visual to catch the rest of the sentence. He could infer, certainly, but the idea of those soft lips wrapped around various sensitive aspects of his anatomy sent any focused attention straight to hell.

Red heat flooded his pale cheeks as he jerked himself awake, suddenly frustratingly aware that he had just experienced his first real dirty fantasy.

Temari would be so proud.

"What..."

"_You weren't paying attention, were you?_"

Gaara refused to share any explanation. He was too busy trying to think of everything and _anything _that would make his 'little problem' go away. And he had so hoped that he was asexual.

Another breeeze filtering down the line, "_Naruto is a special kind of human being, Gaara_. _The kind that wasn't always._"

A pause, as Gaara tried to come up with some sort of sharp quip to let his relative know exactly how convoluted and utterly useless that statement had been, and Sasori took the chance to add in the classic hit-and-run.

"_I love you._"

And the line shut down with a neat little click, leaving Gaara all by himself in a basin of misery and lukewarm bathwater. He looked down at himself, examining pale skin riddled with old scars and fresh bruises.

Still hard.

He got the feeling that G-d was probably laughing.

* * *

He bit his lip until it bled, and decided that it was probably time to get

* * *

Out of the water, Naruto spilled back onto dry land, sparing a glance to the polluted fluids circling the drain. Dirty things tended to spiral that way, sinking down, getting worse. Rarely did one hear of anything spiraling _up_.

He touched the spiral tattooed on his stomach with the very tips of his fingers—nearly scratching the surface. It had been a long time since he'd last imagined having claws to rip and tear with. He took a breath, running the pad of his index finger gently along the outer edge. He should have had the thing removed, but they'd told him to keep it.

It looked good.

Ha. Ha. Ha.

* * *

Up, up, up.

Naruto had gotten good at pulling himself upward, hauling his own sorry ass out of anything that might come close to wallowing. The reason they called it a past was because it was behind you, watching you walk away, feeling sorry for itself.

You didn't need to lend a hand.

Instead, Naruto looked down, watching his feet sink into the plush fabric and wriggling his toes. He wondered what Gaara's feet looked, bare. What all of him looked like, really, but he liked considering the little details.

Gaara was a human being. He might have forgotten it, but Naruto had a pretty sharp memory, and the patience to leave the right reminders. How to walk without your shoulders hunched in, how to eat without wondering if you were going to regret it.

How to smile.

The blonde looked up at that thought, studying himself in the mirror. Tanned, attractively built, with a perfect spiral inked into the cradle of his lower abdomen. He couldn't count scars—when they came, they were made with surgical care, healing light to maintain high aesthetic standards.

Spiraling—up.

He smiled at himself, studying curious blue eyes before examining the curve of his own lips, the teasing flash of pretty white teeth. It had taken him a while to figure this one out, and even longer to mean it. The hardest thing of all was to _like _himself when he did it.

A long process.

He thought, briefly, of peeling one off and presenting it to the gloomy redhead.

_I want you,_ He mouthed, _Even if no one else does_.

...Too sappy.

_Put this on for me?_

...Too sleazy.

He'd figure something out. This was a crash course for him, too. Helping someone else.

Rough pads returned to his skin, tracing over a thin, shimmery line of old healed flesh.

For his own sake, he took the time to address someone entirely different. He smelled the burnt incandescence of overhead lights and the faint rush of water through pipes. He looked into yellow eyes that hover hallucination-heavy in the mirror.

It was important to say this one aloud:

"Every day you're dead, I get happier."

* * *

He toweled off, threw on the jeans Tsunade left him, and padded out of the bathroom.

He flipped the lights off behind him.

* * *

Gaara didn't bother drying off. He just wrapped a thin towel around his hips, held up loosely by the tuck-and-fold of the fabric, tented in an infuriatingly inconvenient fashion.

He couldn't get rid of the nasty red heat spilled behind his cheeks, swirling underneath the taut fabric of his pale face. He didn't bother cleaning up as he dripped down the hallway, tightening his throat as if to punish himself for his urge to pant at the soft pressure of moving fabric.

He paused for a moment, gaze drifting down, to consider his wet, heavy boots perched at the top of the stairs where he'd left them. He indulged the urge to kick them down the stairs in a jumbled mess of rumbles and thumbs. Only one made it to the ground floor.

Turning from the stairs, he lifted a hand to trace experimentally over his collarbone as he continued down the hall, foregoing his room and turning prematurely into his older brother's. He picked his way through Kankuro's scattered debris and spread himself out on top of the sheets.

Sufficiently comfortable, he reached down with his free hand to slowly remove the fabric barrier. He gripped himself hesitantly, nearly choking on his own sudden indrawn breath. Everything jarred to a halt, and suddenly he was ashamed of himself.

He closed his eyes, another breath rattling in and out, and he caught himself just short of sobbing. What the hell was he doing? Laying on his brother's bed, palming himself—for what? He'd never done anything like this before. He hadn't wanted to.

It was normal. He knew that.

But he was anything but normal.

He felt like a kid playing dress-up all by himself. Wondering if he was doing it right.

...Until the thought crept back in—with company.

Suddenly, his imagination was alive and well again. It was Naruto, behind and below him, his arms wrapping around him. He could hear him _breathing_.

_Something wrong?_

Talented fingers toyed with a sensitive nipple, and the grip around his erection loosened and tightened, shifting to trace every nuance of flesh.

"Ah—ah_aah..._it _hurts_." Gaara whispered, struggling to remember how breathing was supposed to work.

A low, intimate chuckle, and a slow, stroking motion started in time with Gaara's shallow breathing.

_Why didn't you say so?_

"Sh-shut up. _Haa..._" A thumb passed over the head, smearing pre-ejaculate across warm muscle. The hand on his chest was suddenly so much less important. He bit his lip, screwing his eyes shut as his head fell back, his spine arching as he moaned, soft and high.

_You're blushing. _

Nothing came out but a series of strangled whimpers. Everything was new. Everything was crashing in. He felt himself starting to shake as the pressure in his belly built to a nearly unbearable level, "H-hurt..s..."

_ It's easy enough to fix_.

A second hand joined the first, exploring further, pressing—and pressing _harder_. He turned his head to the side, envisioning a warm press against his cheek. That damn chuckle again, and then an entirely new invention mingled with his memory.

_ It's okay, baby. Just for me._

"M-_mm_m."

He would have done just about anything, in that moment. He couldn't recall the last time he'd felt _good_. And this was better.

_C'mon, Gaara. Come for me._

Suddenly there was a flash behind his eyelids, and everything burst. The tightness in his throat ruptured, and he was dimly aware of his own screaming.

There was a warm, sticky substance spilled over his chest, his stomach, and across his cheek. His head rolled back again, his eyes wide open and staring blankly at the ceiling.

He felt too heavy to move. All he could do was stare upward, listening to his own heaving breaths. Slowly, the strength returned, and he lifted hesitant fingers to collect the substance on his damp cheek. Slowly, he parted his lips, touching stained fingers to his tongue.

He wrinkled his nose, once again remembering where he was.

He was back on his brother's sopping wet bed, coated in his own orgasm, and feeling distinctly alone.

_Fuck fuck fuck._

He was quick to wipe the sticky substance off before it had the chance to dry, dropping it in the hamper before rushing back to the relative safety of his own room and hiding in his old clothes.

He was glad he was alone.

This way, no one could contradict him. He would never have to admit that he was crying.

* * *

Come on, now.

_Use me up._

* * *

**A/N: **Again, sorry for the late update. I'm trying to force myself to update everything, now. It's a rather difficult undertaking. I hope you've enjoyed the chapter, and that you weren't blinded by the awkward lemon.

'Til next time.


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